


burn to gold

by kblaze2



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Trailer, Forehead Touching, Gentleness, M/M, Pre-Battle, Steve Rogers Feels, Wakanda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-03-01 19:37:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13301796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kblaze2/pseuds/kblaze2
Summary: Steve has been doing this for seventy years. Bucky, too. On the sun-kissed fields of Wakanda, they take a breath before battle.





	burn to gold

**Author's Note:**

> "stevebucky deserve a forehead touch and to hold hands" they all said.
> 
> "they're right," i said, "and here's 100% more angst than necessary."
> 
> did i proofread this? no

The air is still around them. There's a hum of anticipation. They know what's coming.

Steve aches. He is so, so tired. Seven years, seventy years, eighty years. He's been fighting for so goddamn long. The itch stays under his skin, though; charges through his fingers. He flexes his hands. There's always a fight to be had, though lately they've been fights for the security of the entire world, rather than the safety of choice. This isn't a back alley, though, this is war. Of course, he should know that by now. Two years, seven years, eighty years. 1944. 2017. There's always a war.

His bones know it, too. Those poor, tired things, stable for far too long. The ground shakes, and the vibrations reach his bones. Deep and true, and he readies himself. Blood courses through his veins, pumps through his heart, his brain, and he feels strangely calm. The air is growing thicker, time is running out; he doesn't have his shield. He ripped off the star. If this is the final fight, then so be it. Steve is tired. Steve is angry. Steve wants to go home.

"Hey."

He turns, and this: this. The fight could never leave him, not with Buck at his side. 1941, 1945, 2014, 2017. Steve can't give up. He couldn't even if he wanted to. There are too many wrongs to right, too many sins to repent, to many repairs to make; too many scars unhealed. Vengeance is not something Steve takes lightly. Bucky has been hurt. 1945, 2014, 2016. And Steve didn't help him — _couldn't_ , he reminds himself, though the thought sounds like Bucky's voice. He won't rest; Hydra may be taken care of but there are still names on Steve's list. Underlined in red pen, violent and rough scratches, ink bleeding through. It bleeds and bleeds; they always do. But, Steve thinks, they heal fast. They can take a couple more scratches. They can fight the good fight again. Side by side; twelve and six.

Steve's eyes fall onto Bucky's arm. His _new_ arm — sleek and shiny and beautiful. Flecked with gold to match his heart. Steve wanted to cry when he first saw it, when Shuri held it proudly between her small hands. Steve wants to cry now, always, looking at Bucky. It breaks his heart. That arm, that pain, that furrow to his brow. That's seventy years in the making, and Steve is nowhere near raising enough Hell to make up for it.

What falls before them now will do its fair share. As he thinks this, he brings his hand up to the rough stubble of Bucky's face, cupping his jaw, and the trees shake. The rumbling is not quite so distant now. It makes Steve angrier than he could've imagined.

There was solace here. Peace: beautiful, gentle, forgiving. Untarnished. Bucky found sanctuary here. Steve owes them everything. And now — God, now. Steve almost laughs. Of all the things, all the places — T'Challa's home, Bucky's Eden, this pure and whole country that's secluded and detached in the best way — is being invaded by fucking aliens. Steve breathes through his nose. Always a war, always fucking aliens, too, apparently. Steve has no problem tearing them apart. They came for his own home, his own people, and now they come again, ruining something sacred. Steve will bare his teeth, bare his soul, and protect his family with his bare hands.

Of course they're his family. Buck, obviously, first and foremost, since the beginning of time, and 'til the end. Until the very fucking end. Sam, who gave Steve himself back when he thought it was lost forever, who kept him whole when that other piece was just out of reach (Bucharest, Berlin, Wakanda). T'Challa and his people, who made sure that part of Steve's heart was handled with care after so many years of everything but, helping the lost soul find its anchor again. The people who have exemplified grace and discretion in a way that Steve envies, in a way that everyone believes he already does. Steve will fight for them, while the world continues to fight against them. Natasha, a friend: the greatest Steve could ask for. She is unwavering and without compromise; she is a rock, and so she has been stuck in the ground while the world and all its countries have wrongfully spat at her. And she always picks up the fight, the good fight, just like Steve.

He glances at her now, and she nods, briefly and gently, just like the small smile that rises and falls on her face before him. It settles something low in his chest. He's glad to be here, for them. His eyes sweep the people behind and around him. Bruce — well, Hulk — Okoye, Clint, Rhodey — even Rhodey. God, Steve aches for all of them. He suited up for them, and it's an honor.

"Hey," Buck repeats. His blue eyes are tired, too, Steve sees. Steve splays the fingers of his hand out along Bucky's cheek, until one can trace at his eyebrow, one hooked under his ear, and the thumb swiping at the space where skin meets sharp stubble. Bucky lets out a huff of air through his nose, and he's beautiful. The sun hits his face, and something about him still manages to glint, to shine, after all this time. After everything. Steve loves him.

"Hey yourself," Steve says back, though his voice doesn't quite sound like it's his. The voice of a fighter is being snuffed out by that of a tired man. But Steve isn't done just yet. _One more_ , he thinks, and brings his fingers back into Bucky's hair, tangling in. _Just one more. One good one, and then we'll be done. He'll be done. God please let him be done._ Steve swallows. "You should tie this up," he says.

Bucky's eyes flick upwards, his shoulder giving a quick shrug. The longest strands of his hair just graze it. "Hasn't gotten in the way before. Still got better aim than you." A hint of a smirk.

"Well, that was always true," Steve allows, own lips turning up. Steve thinks of before, how it was so simple, how their lives made sense. Up until the end of 1941, it was just them and nothing else. And then war: great and terrible, swallowed them up like Apophis the sun, and Steve thinks they're still stuck inside the snake's belly. Chaos has reigned for seventy years, after all. Steve doesn’t know if he'll ever get out. He doesn't know when after comes.

He was born from this grass. This sun, this earth, it harvested minerals greater than man. This place made his shield. It's only fitting then that, here, he should die without it. He will reap what was sowed.

"Hey," Bucky says, sharper this time; angrier. "Quit that. Me and you, Rogers." His right hand comes to grip the back of Steve's collar, rough and sure. His palm spans the back of Steve's head, his fingers too threading Steve's hair between. "Me and you," he repeats, lower, softer; scared, Steve realizes. "You ain't leavin' me, and I ain't leavin' you. We've been alive too fucking long for that shit." And Steve huffs a laugh, or maybe he chokes. He doesn't know. His throat is tight. "Okay?" Bucky says, swaying Steve's head around a little.

Steve nods, if only lightly. "Okay, Buck," he says. He doesn't promise, because he doesn't break promises. But if he's being honest, every word he's ever said to Bucky Barnes has been a promise. Every touch, every march across the world, every meal made, every battle fought; every bullet, every punch, every kiss. Steve has given his soul and heart over to Bucky Barnes time and time again for eighty some years, and in return he has gotten the promise of Buck's gentle and careful hands holding onto his heart, keeping it close to his own chest, baring his teeth at anyone who dared to come near, to ruin. It was always them versus everybody, still is. _Me and you, Buck,_ Steve whispered after Austria, after Siberia. "Me and you," he says now. And his heart is fucked. His tired, angry, whole heart, the one in his chest and the one standing before him now.

Bucky hums. "Maybe you're the one who needs the hair tie, huh?" he says, fingers curling further into Steve's hair. Steve's long hair. The hair Steve grew when he stopped giving a shit.

He smiles, and Bucky smiles back. And for one beautiful goddamn second they are alone. 1933, 1944, 2017. Bucky is his touchstone. Bucky is home. Bucky is alive. He deserves to live. And if Steve doesn’t make it out, that's okay. He's lived a thousand lifetimes, and he got Bucky. _He_ _got Bucky. He has Bucky_. That's more than he could've ever asked for.

Then, "They are coming," T'Challa warns. And the earth shakes even more. It's violent and sudden and real. The sound of many footsteps. The sounds of tanks in a forest in Europe. The sound of a fight.

Nat says: "Brace yourselves, boys." And they do.

Steve's other hand finds itself at Bucky's shoulder, the metal warm under his fingertips. He traces his finger along the gold. Bucky pulls his head in close, rests his forehead upon Steve's. They breathe for a second, though it feels like eternity. A lifetime passing between their breaths, a lifetime far too long, far too lucky. Steve's fingers are at Bucky's wrist, and then they're between his, and Steve's heart thumps at once, finally. This is it.

Their fingers fit together like they were made to — and they were made, weren't they? The pair of them. They were born and broken and made, and yet have always belonged. Bucky's hand on his neck is warm and safe. Bucky lets out a short and nervous breath, and Steve aches for him. A kiss would tell, so Steve doesn't. Instead he nods against Bucky, and they hold. A quiet and free second. Bucky shifts, though, drags Steve's head down just a fraction to trace his lips over his hairline; the touch is gentle, though Steve doesn't know why he expected any different. Bucky always took care with Steve. In the second left of Bucky's lips on his skin, Steve closes his eyes. And then they break.

Steve takes a deep breath. Bucky cocks his rifle. The enemy emerges from the tree line.

The battle wages on.


End file.
